by Talbot Mundy
“So you’re Tum-Glain, are you! I asked for Mr. Tom Grayne and they corrected my pronunciation!”
“Elsa! Well, thank the Lord! Where’s Thö-pa-ga?”
“At Nancy Strong’s.”
“How is he?”
“Moony. But he’s better. He began to get better as soon as we started to climb from Siliguri.”
“Moony? About you?”
“Yes. And he’s afraid to go to Tibet. He’s like a man awaiting execution. Nancy Strong offered to keep him as a teacher in her school, but he says — you know his funny phrases — spiritual things might happen. What he means is, he’s afraid of shang-shang sendings. He’s afraid they would wish them on Nancy Strong.”
“She lend you the waterproof? It’s nearly big enough for Lobsang Pun! Who brought you here?”
“I came. I didn’t need to be brought. I held Lobsang Pun’s horse’s tail. He didn’t mind. Nancy Strong says you will send me back to England. Tom — please!”
“How did you come from Delhi?”
“Some one’s carriage to the Edith Cavell Hospital, I don’t know whose. Then—”
“Why did you go to the hospital?”
“Dr. Lewis asked me to, at Dowlah’s house, when he was testing my blood-pressure. He didn’t test it seriously. What he wanted to do was to talk. I didn’t see him at the hospital. He was operating, or so the head night-nurse said. They brought Thö-pa-ga down — he was hysterical, he was so glad to see me — and the carriage took us about twenty minutes’ drive through dark streets to a place where a big closed Daimler car was waiting. Some one had brought my bag from the hotel and paid the bill, the receipt was on top of the bag, tucked under the strap. We were off in a minute. It was a perfectly wonderful drive, and—”
“Before that happened, did Dowlah send you with a message to Lobsang Pun?”
“No. Abdul Mirza’s servant did. He begged me not to mention Dowlah, so I didn’t. He asked me to go with Noropa, in a closed carriage, and say that Eiji Sarao was dying and must speak to Lobsang Pun before it was too late. The house we went to seemed to be heavily guarded. We drove through so many streets in the dark that I haven’t the slightest idea where it was. The walls were hung with Tibetan pictures. Lobsang Pun turned out to be the man to whom Eiji Sarao had introduced me through a panel in the wall of a shop in the Chandni Chowk that afternoon. Tom, it was fun. I loved it. All intriguey. Lobsang Pun — enormous — like a great gorilla in a black robe — in a rather dark room, all lined with carved wood. Of course I knew Eiji Sarao wasn’t really dying. I lied to a most reverend and holy prelate! Wasn’t that awful? He could speak pretty good English, and he asked me lots of questions about Thö-pa-ga.”
“Did he speak to Noropa?”
“Yes. He cursed him. He called some one and ordered Noropa driven from the house. They treated Noropa pretty roughly. I felt sorry for him, though on the way in the carriage he had done his best to scare me. He kept looking into my eyes. He kept repeating one sentence: ‘Telling Lob sang Pun Noropa brought you! Telling Lobsang Pun Noropa brought you!’ I think he tried to hypnotize me, but perhaps he’s mad. Anyhow, I didn’t say Noropa had brought me. The last I saw of Noropa was when he was thrown out of that house into a dark street. Lobsang Pun came with me in the carriage, back to Dowlah’s house, and another carriage followed us, full of, I think, Tibetans. They all had weapons, and excepting Lobsang Pun they all acted scared. Lobsang Pun seemed just the opposite of scared. He treated me like a favorite niece or something. He held my hand all the way in the carriage and kept patting it and laughing.”
“So you were in Dowlah’s house when Lobsang Pun was in there?”
“No, I wasn’t. Abdul Mirza met me at the front door and took me back to the carriage. He leaned through the window and said ‘Be clever, sweet maid, and let who will be good. Open your eyes and shut your mouth, be kind to Thö-pa-ga, and you shall see where King George will send you!’ He told the coachman where to drive, and the next thing I was at the hospital, where I knew what to do.”
“You did well,” said Tom. “Did Dowlah proposition you at any time?”
“Oh, yes. All through dinner. He was rather good at it. He has an original line. I couldn’t consult you of course, so I pretended to be awfully thrilled but rather scared.”
“Why didn’t you come here first?” Tom asked. “Why did you go to Nancy Strong’s house?”
“Shouldn’t I have? Thö-pa-ga wanted to go there. Dr. Lewis had advised it, though he said I should probably find you here. It was awfully late, but Nancy Strong seemed to expect us. She had food ready, and two bedrooms prepared. She expected me to stay the night. But Tom, her account of her conversation with you in the train — I couldn’t stay still until I had asked you about it. She said—”
“How did you meet Lobsang Pun again?”
“He came to Nancy Strong’s house on horseback. I’ve no idea where he came from. He may have overtaken us in another auto during the night. Or he may have come by plane. I simply don’t know. He demanded to see Thö-pa-ga, who was already in bed, so Nancy Strong took him to Thö-pa-ga’s bedroom, and I don’t know what happened. I should say he was alone with Thö-pa-ga for at least half an hour. Nancy Strong told me Lobsang Pun was coming here to see Mu-ni Gam-po. She said she was glad he was leaving her house, because his enemies are after him and there might be serious trouble. So I borrowed her waterproof, and I didn’t ask Lobsang Pun’s leave or anything. I just held on to his horse’s tail, because it was dark and I could hardly force my way against the rain. I’m wet, but here I am. And now, Tom, tell me.”
He met her eyes and spoke bluntly:
“I have promised to do my best to persuade you to return to England.”
Elsa waited several seconds before she answered. Her face, in the reflected torchlight, was a picture of alarm — wide-eyed. She didn’t flinch, but her voice changed:
“Tom, do you think that’s honorable?”
Tom’s voice had changed, too: “I can’t go back on a promise.”
A pause — bleak, grim, gusty — eyes to eyes in semi-darkness.
“How about your promise to me?”
Thunder and lightning cannonaded for sixty seconds be fore he could answer:
“That was conditional.”
He writhed. He knew he couldn’t keep her from detecting it. He knew the keenness of her enthusiasm, the sharpness of her disappointment. He could guess how she felt by how he himself felt. That was why he had set his jaw and raised his voice to make it harshly penetrate the noise of splashing and of voices echoed off the courtyard walls. Even in his own ears it sounded cruel.
Lobsang Pun and Mu-ni Gam-po, followed by a dozen monks, were coming up the stone stairway. He took Elsa’s arm and almost hustled her into the dark passage that led toward his cell. There he faced her again. It wasn’t easier, even so, where he could hardly see her eyes.
“Conditional on the marriage being secret,” he said. “It isn’t. They know it.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Nancy Strong didn’t say so, but I knew she knew it, from the way she spoke about your conversation on the train.” She laid her hands on his forearms. “Tom — do you believe I told?”
“No. I know you didn’t.”
“Did you tell?”
“No. But I’ve admitted it. They’ve checked back. Simply routine, that. Punch a button nowadays, and you can find out anything, about anybody. The gaff’s blown, Elsa.”
“Tom, are you being fair? Have I failed you? Is there any reason, that we didn’t discuss before we left England, why you should order me home now?”
“No, by God,” he answered. “Damn the woman. I told her flat I wouldn’t order you home.”
“Then I won’t go.”
“Fine,” said Tom. “That settles that. Tell her I kept my promise.”
She laughed, suddenly, gaily. “Tom, you’re — Please forgive me. I was scared. I was afraid I hadn’t made good. I should have know you wouldn’t use a trick
to get rid of me. She didn’t say so, but she made me think you had asked her to have me sent home.”
“Hold on to yourself,” he answered. “Scares have hardly begun. Eiji Sarao is dead — of a shang-shang bite. They’ve canned Dowlah — caught him double-crossing every one, I don’t doubt. They have okayed you, unless Nancy Strong should report unfavorably and I don’t think she will. They’ve given me my head and all the privilege I could ask. I have Noropa by the short hair. I’ve a line on where the Thunder Dragon Gate is. Now we go to the mat with Lobsang Pun. The old bird’s a top-notcher, so there won’t be any easy show-down. He’s the Tashi Lama’s political chief of staff. He’s the Tibetan Number One. When Number One steps out, there’s trouble. If his enemies are out to get him, that’s my answer to all the prayers I’ve prayed since I was your size. You’d better stay and see the midnight ceremony. Are you too wet? Are you tired? Wait, I’ll get a blanket for you. If we’re in the gallery before the show begins there’ll be no questions asked.”
CHAPTER 23. “They’re taking Thö-Pa-Ga away!”
THE dark gallery ran the entire length of one side of the chapel. It was so high up under the roof that Tom could touch the rafters. No lamps up there, but there was plenty to look at if one could only see it. Wood carving. Pictures. His little pocket flash-light hardly served to show the details of a Tantric Hell depicted on a panel on the rear wall. A sound, while he and Elsa were looking at that, drew his attention to the fact that they were not alone in the gallery. He left her in the dark and went to investigate.
The Bön magician, his novice, the shaman and four more of the party he had seen in the courtyard, were grouped together at the far end, in the darkest corner. They had had to move the benches to make room for their two big baskets covered with black waterproofing. They stirred like evil birds disturbed by the pin-ray light. The shaman spoke, in Tibetan. He said nothing polite. Tom didn’t answer. There was nothing to be gained by trying to make conversation. He groped his way back to Elsa and they went to the opposite end of the gallery overlooking the high altar. The benches were too low for any one seated to see over the rail to the floor below, so they leaned on the breast-high rail.
There were little lights on the altar, and two big lamps at the opposite end, but all the middle of the chapel was in darkness until two monks entered, one with an electric torch to show the other where to use his taper on a long pole. They lighted all the little oil-lamps in the niches in the walls, and in the iron lanterns hanging from the beams, until the chapel was aswim with smoky light that spread rich shadows flickering amid colored banners and upon the calm features of Chenrezi above the high altar. But it was almost as dark as before, up there in the gallery.
After a while the gallery door squeaked open and thudded shut. Footsteps. Stealthy. No slap of sandals. Tom used his flash-light. It wasn’t bigger than a cigarette-case; it made a circle of light about two feet in diameter.
In the midst of that appeared Noropa’s death-mask face — Noropa’s eyes, like a cat’s. He was smiling — the first smile Tom had seen on that humorless face — wan, hideous, a bit pitiful, unpleasant. He came forward, making very little noise for such a tall, strong, awkward specimen. He thrust his face close to Tom’s, stuttered and then spoke with more than his usual breathless speed, as if a thousand syllables could form only one word:
“My-not-knowing-you-such-very-Number-One-man-they-letting- me-go-saying-you-demanding. Now-my-understanding-you-plotecting-my- obeying.”
The man was trembling with excitement, or relief, or anxiety — or perhaps with all three. He could speak English better than that when he was in a normal condition.
“What did the police do to you?” Tom asked.
“Nothing-only-telling-me-your-being-Number-One-Amelikan. My-being-glad-plotection-and-obeying-Number-One.”
“Go and find out what’s in those baskets. Come back and tell me.”
Tom drew Elsa close to him. She snuggled and he felt for given for suggesting she should go home. He laid his hand on her neck to feel if she was shivering with cold. She wasn’t. He found her hand and used their private code:
“Giving Noropa his chance. That man in the far corner is a black magician — Bön — perhaps a hot wire.”
“Do you trust Noropa?”
“Too friendly all of a sudden.”
Monks began filing in, two by two, until the floor below resembled a dark carpet of bowed heads. At the far end, facing the altar, a raised stone platform was left clear. The wall behind it was hung with pictures of Tibetan saints. Old Mu-ni Gam-po, followed by acolytes and ministrants, entered to the sound of a gong and weird wind-music that accompanied a chant. He took his seat on the high-backed throne-chair beside the altar. Motionless, in heavy vestments, he looked like a carving in old wood and ivory. One monk, seated beside a flat drum, which he tapped with a strangely irregular beat, intoned a hymn. Most of the words went lost amid the rafters. But it wasn’t a regular Buddhist hymn. It sounded more like a ballad describing miraculous feats by the followers of the holy saint Avalokitesvara, against the sinful minions of the Eight Great Perils. Decidedly not pacifistic poetry. Mu-ni Gam-po looked ill at ease. The monks kept glancing at each other.
Silence, as if something had gone wrong. It lasted two or three minutes. The noise of rain and wind from the courtyard suggested a storm at sea. There was a sudden booming blare of radongs — twenty-foot long trumpets. All the monks’ faces turned toward a door beneath the gallery. There was thudding and commotion, but Tom and Elsa couldn’t lean over far enough to see what caused it. The devil-dancers appeared — sixteen of them, two abreast, in grotesque devil-masks and full costume.
Tom signaled to Elsa: “Something fishy. Devil-dancing is done outdoors. Looks to me like trouble brewing. Tibetan monks are scrappers when they’re roused.”
“Would they fight in here?” she answered.
“Fight anywhere, like hornets. Rouse ’em, that’s all.”
The monks had to make way for the devil-dancers, who forced quite a wide passage down the midst of the chapel, dancing a curious, stealthy step, in a formation that opened and closed like scissor-blades. The same step constantly repeated. Behind them came a heavy palanquin, borne on poles by eight monks. It was a closed, old-fashioned thing, held together by big wooden pegs inserted into tongues protruding through slots in the woodwork. Its shape looked almost Chinese. But the dragon, on the panel that could be seen from the gallery, wasn’t Chinese. It was a crudely painted monster with a devil’s face and eight legs, belching a crimson fury of flame through a long snout that was almost like a trumpet.
Elsa signaled Tom: “The monks look scared.”
“Hold on to yourself,” he answered. “Don’t talk. Watch. Keep close to me.”
She crowded herself against him, so that he shouldn’t have to look for her. He put his arm around her.
Behind the palanquin — at a noticeable distance behind it — walked Lobsang Pun. He was preceded by one attendant bearing a bronze dorje on a cushion — a thing shaped like a thunder-bolt. It meant that he represented the Tashi Lama. He was dressed in the full robes of a Yellow-hat lamaistic hierarch, including cone-shaped hood. He looked enormous. He took long strides, slowly, that made his robes sway, so he looked arrogant.
He paused, exactly in the middle of the chapel and faced the high altar, until his eight attendant monks had formed into a group behind him. Then, with convincing reverence, he bowed before the image of Chenrezi. Nothing could have been more decorous, meek, dignified. He appeared unconscious of the disturbance behind him. One of his attendants slapped a monk belonging to the monastery who hadn’t backed out of the way fast enough. There was quite a scuffle. Lobsang Pun marched forward toward the high altar, followed by only seven attendants; the eighth was being carried out, apparently stunned by a blow on the head. He bowed to Mu-ni Gam-po and then seated himself on a throne like the Abbot’s, on the other side of the altar, with his attendants grouped on his left hand.
Tom signaled: “Shut up! Watch!”
The palanquin was carried to the dais at the far end of the chapel. The bearers’ clothing was slightly different from that of Mu-ni Gam-po’s congregation. They might perhaps be Lobsang Pun’s men. As they raised the palanquin to the dais one of them slipped on the stone. He fell and was soundly kicked in the ribs by one of Mu-ni Gam-po’s monks. He seized the monk’s leg in both hands and bit it. He was kicked in the face. The palanquin almost toppled over, but a monk with a sharp stick came and restored order, prodding as if he were driving animals to market. He was a very efficient person, competent to prod the right man at the proper moment. The palanquin was lifted to the dais and planted there facing the altar with its poles removed. The devil-dancers, on the floor to right and left of it, swayed and gestured. They appeared not to be illustrating any midnight adoration theme.
Abbot Mu-ni Gam-po looked like a man in the seat of torture. His face was a picture of impotent indignation. He raised his right hand. One of his acolytes struck a gong. There was a subdued blare of horns. There began the regular midnight ritual, more than vaguely resembling High Mass droned by long-used, rather listless voices. But Lobsang Pun’s voice was as clear as a bell. He led the chanting. By the vigor of his reverence he re-created a sensation of mystical midnight devotion. The ritual grew real.
“Arbitrary old devil,” Tom signaled to Elsa. “Champion churchman. Hellion. Humorist. I bet his plan is to commit Mu-ni Gam-po to something the old chap disapproves. But I think there’s trouble brewing.”
Noropa groped his way back stealthily. He appeared excited. He came to Tom’s left side and whispered.
“Their-saying-baskets-containing-relics-for-blessing-by- Holy-Lobsang-Pun-when-this-service-finishing.”
